


Business Casual

by thereisalwaysroom



Category: Penn & Teller RPF
Genre: Asymmetrical Orgasms, Big Boys make the best subs, Blowjobs, Bullshit-Era Penn and Teller, Colleagues to Friends, Colleagues to Lovers, Friends(?) to Lovers(?), Hair Pulling, Handcuffs, Loving Your Partner, M/M, Magicians, Mild/New D/s dynamic, Reminiscing, Slapping, THEY SHOULD DEFINITELY HAVE TALKED MORE BEFORE THIS, Teasing, You know Penn fuuuuuuucks, currently outfitting the handbasket that will take me right to hell thanks, friends as lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27594503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thereisalwaysroom/pseuds/thereisalwaysroom
Summary: “Think of it as revenge for all those years of ‘Casey at the Bat’,” Penn rasps, tossing him the cuffs as he sinks to the floor. Teller catches them one-handed with his usual grace, arches a brow that, while playful, does not lack a calculating undercurrent. It might feel judgmental, almost cringe-worthy if Penn didn’t want - need - this so goddamn much right now.
Relationships: Penn Jillette/Teller (Magician)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 9





	Business Casual

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TinfoilHat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinfoilHat/gifts).



> DON’T ASK ME, DUDE, DO NOT ASK ME, I DON’T EVEN KNOW, I don’t even know. It's like I entered a fugue state. Election season is a crazy drug. Bless these Nevada dwelling bastards. 
> 
> Thank you to @barthelme and @thataj for the encouragement, and @TinfoilHat who screamed at me to finish it. I am your s e r v a n t, amore.

“Think of it as revenge for all those years of ‘Casey at the Bat’,” Penn rasps, tossing him the cuffs as he sinks to the floor. Teller catches them one-handed with his usual grace, arches a brow that, while playful, does not lack a calculating undercurrent. It might feel judgmental, almost cringe-worthy if Penn didn’t want - need - this so goddamn much right now. 

He’s a kinky bastard. He’s in the midst of building a low-key soundproof sex dungeon in the Slammer, for fuck’s sake. He knows what he’s talking about. But, like their tricks, even those that are 100% safe (they all are, Penn will die on this hill), this feels a little dangerous. 

Teller has never been in the revenge business. He’s never had a need, even if his silent expertise makes him seem too thin, too small, too crafty. No amount of being tied up or thrown in a tank of piranhas or suspended over a bed of nails has ever made him snap. He’s a showoff, a peacock, just like Penn. That’s why they’re here. That’s why they’re in show-business. 

Penn stays there, even as the uncomfortable tingle in his feet becomes a numbing deadness. He stays on his aching knees, taking in the angles. The details. The crisp line of suit trousers. The way Teller notches his belt at the third hole. How nothing about him seems out of place. No wrinkle unintentional. No loose space unaccounted for. 

It’s Teller’s call. He could get up and leave right now. He could stare at Penn for a long minute, toss him the cuffs and shake his head. He could open his mouth and just tell him no. Penn would not blame him. He would not even be surprised.

But his partner takes his time, hanging his suit-jacket over the chair, the red satin lining gleaming like the flush of a bloody lip. It leaves his arms exposed, no sleeves to load or ditch or steal from. The only thing he properly palms in his warm hand is Penn’s broad and bearded chin. He doesn’t speak (asshole), even with no one to watch, even in the holy, sterile, loveless company of themselves. Cameras off, Penn half his hulking height, hands resting palm-down on his thick thighs. Awaiting instructions.  
  


The last ten hour shoot, meant to tear apart every godforsaken myth about kink they could dig up, had ended in him handcuffed and blindfolded, dressed in a parodical overtly-fetishistic getup, spouting the truth. The truth that all adults should have brains and sanity enough to do whatever they want in the bedroom. The shoot was over and in post; yet, the nagging sense of incompletion - dissatisfaction? - had lingered like an itch he couldn’t scratch himself.

It had been lingering since pre-production, as him and Teller sorted through an obscene array of props. The glee in Teller’s face was unmistakable as he poked his finger through the holes in a wooden paddle, ran them through the strange soft tails of a leather flogger, and he’d shrugged with a dreamy, blasé indifference when Penn suggested he wear the ball gag (they’d been unable to decide if the redundancy was funny or not). 

Maybe it was the long look Teller had given him when Penn walked out in that absolutely ridiculous leather getup complete with garters and fishnets. How he had been the only one who hadn’t laughed. The way Teller had, just for fun, twirled the long tail of Penn’s tied back hair round his finger before a take, given it a tug just shy of hard, and swept all conscious, reasonable thought from Penn’s head with the speed of a kill switch.

  
  
  


Shyness is not a concept that exists between them. You don’t travel for decades with someone, sharing practically everything but a toothbrush without losing every last flying fuck about modesty. They’ve shared hundreds of motel rooms, seen each other naked, even jerked off in the same room under cover of darkness. 

They’ve had their fair shares of getting lucky. Penn had gotten laid so often in the early days of their tours that his body count resembled the start of the New York Marathon. And while Teller’s resembled something more along the lines of a softball team (give or take - they both hate sports, and who really cared as long as they were both getting some), his certainly bore the gift of variety. 

To hell with stereotypes - they were magicians. They fucked like demons. They had _groupies_. Their calling had never, ever negated their ability to drop trou wherever they were and find some eager bedfellows. 

Penn will still always remember the time that he’d had to pull Teller aside and give him a stick of concealer he’d swiped from one of the girls backstage to cover the world’s largest hickey (Teller had been gloriously unsuccessful trying to hide it beneath his collar). He’d told Teller to see if it could (if he’s remembering his phrasing correctly), “Cover up that smug-fuck, cocksucking smirk on his face, too.” That had earned him a laugh. And the finger. And a strange stirring in the pit of his stomach that made him ponder if this was what craving a cigarette felt like.

  
  


Penn is a man of few fears. And Teller was downright _game._ All the time. Game to let Penn do all of these things that danced on the edge of too much. Of _what if we pretended I could hurt you. If it looked like you trusted me that much._

Penn has never been one for regrets. He is not nostalgic - the world is always getting better even if people say it’s getting worse. He does not linger, it keeps him from working, but he still sometimes lapses into memory of Teller bursting out of the tank, coughing and red-faced and sopping, his grin brighter than the quartz lamps blaring on them as they had cut to commercial. The relief after two minutes that felt like twenty. Two minutes knowing Teller had no air, life and career on the line and Penn had been ready, ready to end it, to break him out and ruin their image, their prospects, but _it was Teller’s call_. 

At the end of it, Penn had grabbed his hand. Called it pride, later, because he really had been so very _proud_ of Teller. And the next day they had gone immediately back to the drawing board, hammered out every detail, and had it ready by the Sunday matinee. That quick. They had to be, otherwise Teller would have never gotten into that tank again. Penn wouldn’t have let him. 

But it was Teller’s call. 

Teller, who’s wormed his way out of a straightjacket while hanging upside down thousands of times. Teller, who nearly drowned on live TV. Who held needles in his mouth for minutes on end. Who trusted Penn to put a nail-gun to his throat. Who loves nothing and no one so much as his art. Who wept ( _wept!)_ at the beauty of simple tricks that drove Penn up the wall. Who sometimes mistakes stories for people, who has the patience for the things Penn can’t stand. Teller, who is so smooth and so skilled and so good that Penn could swear he’d been a goddamn wizard in another incarnation (if he believed in any of that bullshit). Teller, who was probably the only one who could make him _want_ to believe, and who was all the better, all the more incredible because he _didn’t_ , and didn’t try. 

Teller who does the things he can’t. In every way. Teller who didn’t make Penn believe he was anything he wasn’t. Who made Penn nothing more than a man. 

Teller, who claps the cuffs on his wrists without a sound, who now grips his hair in a viselike hold that Penn would never dare, and Christ he’s already getting hard, his thighs shaking as he lifts up, up into that hold, wanting to please, wanting to let go, wanting to be good. 

“Slap me.”

The other eyebrow lifts. Penn knows what he’s thinking. A pacifist asking his friend to do something he himself could honestly never do, even if someone begged him. He could never. And not just on principle, but because he’s afraid. He’s used to moving through the world like the biggest bull in the smallest china shop. Teller is perfectly average, perhaps just a hair shorter than Joe Schmo walking down the strip. People seem surprised sometimes when they see him in the flesh; next to Penn, he looks practically pocket sized. But he packs a punch.

He does not ask questions. He still hasn’t said a word, running his open palm over Penn’s cheek, tapping his index finger against his temple, and Penn knows what he’s saying. Remembers the tip picked up from the dominatrix they had interviewed a week ago - _close your eyes._

He does, his teeth gritted. Teller doesn’t do as he’s asked, not at once. Instead, his hand moves to trace circles over his jaw. _Relax._ Easier said than done. Then the hand in his hair tightens again, so hard and fast that Penn feels his nipples stiffen beneath his shirt, and he lets his teeth fall away from each other, his jaw unclench, lets everything in his face and neck and shoulders go completely slack, and _smack!_ The open hand across his face doesn’t hurt, but shocks him like a backwards fall. His breath comes out in a rush, handcuffs straining against his wrists. His shirt feels too tight. Stars winkle at the corners of his vision. Teller’s hand is on his face again, dry and unthreatening. Rubbing the spot that must be flushing already. 

“Jesus,” Penn huffs, leaning into his palm. He can hear Teller breathing, quiet and calm and measured, like everything he does. Unhurried and unworried. “Again.” Penn drags his teeth over his lower lip, eyes still closed. “Harder.” 

No waiting this time. The slap comes with sharp immediacy, stinging and stunning in its force. “Fuck,” Penn grunts, reeling. “That was for SNL, wasn’t it?” 

Teller chuffs at that, dry and voiceless, gripping Penn’s wide jaw in hand. He’s never traded dexterity for strength (a man must contain multitudes, shouldn’t he?) and the hold is enough to make Penn groan deep in his chest. “Please,” he pants, unsure what he’s even asking for. It feels so good to be so big and so small at once, under such skilled and familiar hands. “Please.” Teller needs no convincing. His aim is perfect, leaving a hot, tingling mark across the other cheek, and Penn has to wonder just how much he’s getting from this, too. His own cock is hard and hot as an iron bar stuffed down the front of his pants, his breath heavy, the space beneath his collar warm, damp with sweat. 

Teller hums, the sound warm and rich as dark chocolate. Penn can only imagine the shit-eating grin painting his face, but finds no such sight when he opens his eyes. Teller is merely looking at him, and while Penn has never been the recipient (or _victim,_ he thinks wryly) of that particular gaze, he recognizes it. A mirror of his own when he’s randy as hell and on the hunt. The hard-on tenting the front of his pants is a dead giveaway, too. God, he must be _dying_. How long had it been for him, since he’s had someone on their knees? 

“Fuck, I—” Penn starts, and then he’s laughing. Laughing because the absurdity of the situation is not lost on him. What had he wanted, really? To master another tired old escape trick? To convince Teller they needed to incorporate some new saucy props into their show for a Valentine’s Day special? But at least he knows now. Knows the trepidation, the fear that he might have expected - from either of them - _doesn’t exist_. 

Teller is laughing too, now, reaching down to tug the knot of Penn’s tie away from his Adam’s apple. A thoughtless show of care, flicking the button open just at the top, as though a dress shirt and Windsor knot were the only thing holding him together, holding him back. 

The thought of sucking him off is not out of the question — it’s been in the wheelhouse from the moment Penn sank to his knees. Honest to God, he wants to. Teller probably wants it, too. Their relationship is hygienic in all the ways they can manage, but there are so few lines they have not crossed that Penn wonders why they bother drawing them at all. 

He’s had more than a vague desire to suck cock in his life, but never _this_ cock, not necessarily. It seemed so foreign. Not that he _didn’t_ want to. He has never actively wanted or needed anything more than what Teller could give (other than his entire life - and the fact that Teller left his tenured job as a language teacher to be a silent magician, all because a 17-year-old dropout bound for clown college said, “I thought you were a performer,” and hung up on him…that seemed to say enough). Yet here he is, and here they are, and he is so present in his want it could be mistaken for suspended animation. 

He slides his cuffed hands from his lap to close around Teller’s calf. Watches him palm himself slowly, unceremoniously, with the same blissful nonchalance that trails his every second on stage, the kind that comes only when his pockets are loaded, when places are called. When he is in his element, and his smile is all he has to say.

Penn licks his lips, but doesn’t sit back. He honestly feels bad, feels momentarily sorry that he’s done this, that he’s perhaps led Teller into doing something, crossing a line he had no intention of. But it’s—

“Your call,” Teller says.   
  


Penn hears his voice all the time. But he hasn’t heard it at all _today,_ and now it feels wild and wicked. Intimate - and that’s what Teller is always looking for, isn’t it? It’s the default word when he explains his muteness. Penn’s heard it so many times, it’s past the point of annoyance, almost as grating as the question itself, panel after panel. Irritating because it’s true - Teller can draw people in in ways that Penn can conceptualize but never accomplish. The whimsical mystery of his silence keeps him something to be admired, not solved. Lets him keep people at an arm’s length.

And even Penn, who knows Teller inside and out, has to admit that there is a strange eroticism to it - _what are you thinking, what are you feeling, you crafty son of a bitch?_

He hears that voice more than anyone. The beholder of a gift grown so mundane that he has forgotten how precious it is.

Penn leans in, runs his mouth over the shape of him, feels the warm stiffness of his cock flex against his mouth, longing for contact. Teller shifts backwards so he can lean against the dressing room table, the hiss of his breath like the venting of a carefully controlled pressure valve. Penn can feel every woven thread of his suit under his lips, every one a chance his partner gives him to back off, change his mind, say no. To take what he needs, leave what he doesn’t. And then Teller tightens his hold viciously in Penn’s hair and presses his face with unmistakable force to the bulge in his trousers. 

Penn groans against him - it feels filthy, sacrilegious, and utterly normal. Of course they’re doing this, of _course_. They don’t need excuses. They don’t need reasons. 

He is fucking game.   
  


The cuffs are tantalizingly restrictive; Penn has to unzip him with both hands. He relishes the greedy tone of worship in the act, the frantic excitement in the fumbling, in pulling him out and not even taking the time to look. He’s seen him before, countless times, though not this up close. He knows he’s uncut, that he dresses to the left. He takes him into his mouth without any sort of preamble. Teller’s hand in Penn’s hair drifts down to his shoulder. It seems companionable, strangely brotherly considering the circumstances. Grounding himself, watching him, utterly relaxed. Watching Penn work.

Penn’s not very skilled, he knows this; sword swallowing was never his forte (thank God his mouth is full as he thinks that - Teller might have killed him if he’d said it aloud, rimshot or no). But there’s an odd grace that Teller seems happy to bless him with as Penn tries to finagle what he’s doing. He’s given up on the use of his hands. His arms are long enough (and Teller short enough) that he can lean forward, fingers brushing the floor, all of it a crude sort of balancing act. 

Penn revels in it, revels at the feel of hard flesh in his mouth, the hot rush of blood, the way he is barely aware of his own erection, how hard and hot and wanting he himself is - this is a joy, a pleasure within itself. Feeling the way he twitches against his lips, stretching the inside of his cheek, how lovely it is to run the bottom of his tongue over the head, how his hands on the floor make him feel deliciously helpless. 

Teller is silent for most of it, but not entirely silent. He runs a hand over Penn’s chin, strokes his beard in a way that feels suspiciously tender, then pushes him off, away. Penn sits back for a moment, watches him stroke himself once, twice - _Jesus Christ,_ he looks bigger like this - and then Teller taps the head against his lips. Penn opens obediently, lets Teller feed him his cock, almost carefully, ever so slowly, just how he wants it.

Part of him wants Teller to grab his hair and choke him, fuck his mouth with abandon, make him gag and drool, make him learn, but he doesn’t. He uses him the same way Teller uses everything else. With the precisely cast illusion that Penn has control at all. Teller reaches forward as Penn takes him in, and he feels his partner tug his ponytail free, let his hair spill down his back over his shoulders. Those expert hands hands thread their way through his hair, scratching luxuriously over his scalp. Penn moans around his mouthful, and that tight grip returns, purely for Penn’s enjoyment, and Teller tips his head back, his smile lazy and unbothered as a cat in the sun, gliding in an out of his mouth. 

Penn is obedient, takes what he’s given, hears his knuckles crack as he leans forward on them. He loves, loves, loves this. It is almost (but not quite) like being used. Reduced to a hole, a mouth. Reduced from himself and his public face and his worldly persona, reduced from all the things he has to be, wicked down to the thing he is best at, that they are best at - together. 

The signs are subtle, but unmissable. Teller’s breath falters at the end, and it’s the squeeze to his shoulder, the jittering of a heel that lets Penn know how close he is, how much he’s enjoying himself. He pushes Penn away at the penultimate second, comes in his own hand with a single, guttural, “ _Oh!_ ” A raw sound that hits Penn harder than a kick in the gut, and he manages to look up in the midst of it to see Teller, open-eyed, his mouth pressed into a thin, desperate line. What a sight to see his usual cool resolve shattered easily and suddenly as trick glass. 

Penn barely has time to indulge in watching him recover. Teller is still catching his breath when he bends from the waist, as though taking a bow, and brings Penn’s cuffed hands to his face, taking his fingers into his mouth, over his tongue. And that is different. Delicious and vile, like rubbing a knot during a massage, like the sting of a burnt lip in the middle of the flaming kiss. Penn opens his mouth - and then…the prick. 

“Fuck me,” he says, looking down at the key from his pocket now sitting in the palm of his hand. “Now _that_ was professional.” Teller chuckles, and the smugness in it is strangely loving. Penn should have expected as much. After all, it’s Teller. 

He’s fucking magic.


End file.
